


Dear Enemy

by leici



Category: Olympics RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 22:03:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2244924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leici/pseuds/leici
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's early and, while he's mostly a morning person, the last thing he wants to talk about at seven AM is Michael Phelps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dear Enemy

**Author's Note:**

> For the sslyricwheel "First Times" challenge. The lyrics I received were [Evening On The Ground (Lilith's Song)](http://www.stlyrics.com/songs/i/ironandwine24529/eveningonthegroundlilithssong1054049.html%20target=) by Iron & Wine from ninastasia.
> 
> Primarily set in Palo Alto at Stanford University during Olympic training (July 2008) prior to the 2008 Summer Olympics in Beijing.
> 
> Special thanks to zdarovyeh, who is the best beta (and cheerleader) ever. No, you can't have her. She's mine.
> 
> Written October 2008.

A reporter from the San Jose Mercury catches him in the hall before he gets a chance to get into the locker room. It's early and, while he's mostly a morning person, the last thing he wants to talk about at seven AM is Michael Phelps. But the girl the paper sent seems really green, and nervous, and Ian is nothing if not compassionate toward his fellow man, so he agrees to let her interview him.  
  
Unsurprisingly, more than half the questions the girl has are about Michael, and Ian feels the sense of dread building all the way up to the point where she asks the inevitable, wanting to know about the medley relay in Athens. Luckily, Ian's had a canned response for these questions since day one, and he regurgitates the same bullshit as usual about how selfless it was and how much he appreciates what Michael did for him, what good friends they are and how their rivalry helps to push them, blah blah blah. At least this girl is new enough that she probably hasn't heard the other nine hundred times he's used the same line of cliched garbage.  
  
When she's done (after another six questions about Michael's quest for eight gold medals and how Ian could spoil it, etc. etc. ad naseum), she thanks him and shakes his hand and leaves him alone in the stands above the pool. Some of his teammates are down there already, Brendan and Jason and Aaron, and Ian feels suddenly very isolated. None of them have to deal with this the way he does, because they're all either there to help Michael win, or they aren't a big enough threat to cause him to lose. The only person Ian can really relate to is Ryan Lochte, and Ryan and Michael are such close friends that no one even bothers trying to play up any animosity between them.  
  
Speaking of Michael, it's a little strange that he's not here yet. Bob is down there looking impatient, which probably means Michael overslept again and is going to get a dressing down whenever he finally shows up. Ian won't deny that it makes him feel a little smug, knowing even the amazing Michael Phelps isn't perfect.  
  
Ian's morning seems to be improving.  
  
//  
  
The rest of the day, however, just gets worse. Michael does get reamed by Bob when he finally gets out to the pool, but Ian can't really enjoy it since Eddie has been making him do laps with a kick-board until Michael gets there and he can run them against each other in some practice races.  
  
Ian wants to punch Michael in the face when Michael finally gets into the water, because all he can do is bitch about how Ian's warmed up already and there's no way it's going to be a fair race. Except Ian's legs are ready to fall off from all the flutter kicks, and he dies faster than usual by the end of their third 100m butterfly stint, Michael beating him by over a second. Now Eddie is in about as good a mood as Bob, and Ian's catching the brunt of it as he gets sent on a 1500m set to 'get his speed back up.'  
  
Lunchtime finally rolls around, and everyone gets to leave for a few hours to eat and rest. Except Ian and Michael, who have to stay because Michael wants to make up for being late, and of course they can't have him swimming by himself, God forbid, this close to the Olympics. By the time Eddie and Bob release them, Ian's arms feel like they've got three hundred knives jammed in them, and he can barely make his legs work well enough to change out of his swimsuit into his jeans.  
  
Since they're the only two left, Michael and Ian go to lunch together. Ian thinks it might be relaxing, just going to get something to eat, but apparently Michael doesn't like his new Neko Case CD, or the way he slows down to 15 before making corners, and doesn't run yellow lights. By the time they get to a sandwich place to eat, Ian is dangerously close to strangling Michael to death.  
  
They eat in silence, Michael brooding and Ian fighting the urge to murder him. When they're done, they go back to the pool even though they don't actually have to be back for another couple of hours.  
  
"We should have gone back to the dorms," Michael complains, and Ian's shoulders instantly hitch up with irritation. "I need a fucking nap."  
  
"Didn't you get enough extra sleep this morning?" Ian asks, a bit of a cruel edge to the question. "I mean, that  _is_  why you were late, right?"  
  
"No," Michael replies bluntly, though Ian's pretty sure he's lying. "Besides, I always get a nap after morning practice."  
  
Ian feels his tenuous hold on his sanity starting to slip. He takes a breath and attempts to respond evenly. "Could you, please, just shut up?"  
  
"You are being a serious asshole today," Michael says as they enter the building, and Ian grinds his teeth, refusing to look back.  
  
"Please? Just for ten minutes," Ian pleads as they make their way to the pool auditorium. "It's been a really long day."  
  
"Oh yeah, your life is so hard," Michael bitches, following a little too close behind Ian. It's starting to piss him off.  
  
" _You're_  making it hard," Ian replies as they push through the doors into the pool room. "Seriously. It's always about you, and your fucking gold medals. Even when people interview  _me_ , all they want to talk about is  _you_."  
  
Michael makes a funny sound behind him, like he's laughing, but more harsh. "Well, they talk about you when they interview  _me_. And you're really lucky I'm such a nice guy," Michael says, but the tone of his voice is a little too snotty to remotely qualify as  _nice_. "Because I could really be a dick about the DQ in Melbourne if-"  
  
"Don't you  _dare_ ," Ian cuts him off, stopping in mid-stride and whirling around to look Michael in the eye. "You know how bad I feel about that."  
  
"That's what you say," Michael retorts, and Ian remembers how ugly Michael looks when he gets mad, the downward slant of his mouth and glowering brow. "Maybe you just didn't want me getting eight gold medals. And since you couldn't fucking beat me in the fly..."  
  
"Oh, fuck you," Ian spits back. "I don't care about your fucking medals. I care about mine. And one of these fucking days, I'm going to get you. It's only a matter of time until you don't count your strokes right or you get locked up because you're racing ten thousand times a day, and I'll be fucking waiting."  
  
"Bring it on, asshole. I could beat you with one of my arms tied behind my back."  
  
Ian props his hands on his hips, settling his weight back on his heels. "You're a cocky little prick, you know that? Everyone thinks you're such a good person, but really you're a self-serving asshole. If I get asked about Athens one more fucking time, I might vomit. Like you were really losing out on anything. You still got fucking gold out of the deal." Maybe Ian is crossing a line, because there's something beyond just rage in Michael's eyes now. He's hurt, if only a little, and Ian can see it plain as day on Michael's face.  
  
"Ungrateful..." Michael breathes, and it looks like he's counting to ten. "I did that for you. If you fucked up in the medley relay like you did in the free, I would have got a fucking bronze out of it, if I was fucking lucky."  
  
Ian's mouth drops open, aghast. "I was sick!"  
  
"That's just an excuse!" Michael shouts back, his voice echoing off the tiled walls of the auditorium. "I swim when I'm sick all the time. I swim when I can barely walk from training so hard. I swim when people I love die. I swim all the God damned time, and I don't fucking whine about it."  
  
"Oh, now I know that's fucking bullshit. You complain all the fucking time, about fucking everything. I'm ungrateful? I've never heard someone so fucking talented piss and moan so much in my life. You ought to be thanking God for what you've got on your side without even having to try."  
  
They've gotten close to each other somehow, and Michael's face is right up in Ian's, his rough breathing hot on Ian's face. His volume has dropped, but the tone of his voice is cruel when he replies. "Maybe I am lucky, and talented, but that isn't the reason I keep beating you. Some people are just losers-"  
  
Ian's arms shoot out before he can stop himself, and he shoves Michael in the center of his chest with more force than he thought possible. Michael's not prepared for it, and he stumbles and falls hard to the deck on his ass. He loses half his breath with impact, but he's got more than enough left for the growl that erupts from him when he gets back up, barreling at Ian and pushing him back. Ian can see it coming, so he manages to mostly stand his ground, then he gets his hands up to defend himself, his arms and Michael's tangling as Michael gets two handfuls of Ian's t-shirt.  
  
"Motherfucker," he grunts, tugging and causing Ian to stagger forward, hair falling across the center of his forehead.  
  
"Let go," Ian demands, his fingers curling around Michael's wrists and trying to dislodge him.  
  
"Go to hell," Michael responds, reinforcing his grip.  
  
Ian moves his palms to Michael's shoulders, trying to force him back that way and they struggle, bobbling a little too close to the edge of the pool.  
  
"Michael, stop," Ian hisses between clenched teeth, his face turning red.  
  
"No," Michael mutters, yanking Ian close to him again. Ian's hands grab hold of Michael's shirt and both of their bodies twist a little to the side, balance tipping away from the pool. That is until Michael attempts to correct, and throws their weight the other direction.  
  
There's not a lot of free fall before they break the surface of the water, and the last thing Ian hears is Michael's half cry before the pool swallows it up. Ian's shoulder hits a lane line and his body bends awkwardly in reaction, losing most of the little breath he managed to get as it jars him. His first reaction is to open his eyes and the chlorine burns, but he can make out Michael's blurred form as he blinks and gets his feet under him so he can push up to the surface.  
  
Michael breaks it a second after Ian does, both of them sputtering. Ian's hair is pasted down over his eyes and he reaches up to swipe it away, doing his best to tread water in heavy boots and jeans. "Fuck," he manages after he spits out half a mouthful of water. "Look what you did."  
  
"Me?" Michael's arm is hooked against the side of the pool, and he's blinking stinging water off his long eyelashes. "You started it."  
  
Ian reaches out to snag the lane line with his right arm, clinging to keep his head above water. "You called me a loser. What did you expect?"  
  
"Hey man," Michael says, wiping an enormous palm across his forehead. "I just call them as I see them."  
  
There's a half second pause before Ian lunges the short distance to the wall, pulling Michael away and shoving his head down beneath the water's surface. Michael comes back up snarling, long fingers digging hard into Ian's ribs as he grips the heavy, wet fabric of Ian's shirt, attempting to force him under in retaliation. They grapple, legs kicking, Ian catching Michael in the shin with the hard, pointed tip of his boot. Michael swears, thrashing wildly as he attempts to drown Ian, lifting his feet up and bracing them on Ian's hips, thrusting down as he pushes Ian's shoulders with his hands. Ian claws his way back up by way of the waist of Michael's jeans, fingers hooked in the sodden denim, and tosses his hair back from his eyes without letting go, flinging water in Michael's face.  
  
"Stop," Ian pants, chest heaving.  
  
"You stop," Michael retorts, equally breathless as he reaches out to grip the side of the pool again. "You're gonna drown me."  
  
"That's," Ian gasps, shifting his hand to Michael's shoulder and holding on, "The point."  
  
Neither of them move for a long couple of minutes, the only sound their labored breathing and the lapping of pool water against concrete. Still breathing hard, Ian makes deliberate eye contact with Michael and they stare at each other for a few seconds, the gentle current in the pool rocking them lightly.  
  
"If this ruins my boots," Ian finally says, "I'm going to have you assassinated."  
  
Michael laughs once, the sound breathy. "Yeah right," he says, readjusting his hold on the wall. "This is your fault, anyway."  
  
"My fault?" Ian reaches for the wall himself, letting go of Michael's shoulder. "You've been on my case all day. I'm surprised I didn't snap sooner."  
  
"What the hell are you talking about?"  
  
"Where to begin?" Ian intones, licking water off his lower lip. "You showed up late then harped on me about beating you into the pool, made us late for lunch, complained about my driving, insulted my musical taste-"  
  
"Dude, your musical taste sucks."  
  
"See what I mean? You could try the patience of a saint."  
  
"I think you're just too sensitive."  
  
"Maybe," Ian concedes, tipping his head down as he brings one of his knees up, trying to pull his boot off still under the water. "But you might be too, if you were me. It kinda sucks to have some guy around always screwing you out of a medal because he's a fucking freak of athletic nature."  
  
"You're just jealous."  
  
"I'm not jealous," Ian tosses his left boot on the pool deck, the sound of it echoing hollowly. "I'm frustrated."  
  
"You know I'm just trying to do my best with all this," Michael responds, watching as Ian tugs at his other boot. "I'm not out to get you or anything. It's just about winning."  
  
"I know that," Ian says, his voice strained as he manages to get off the remainder of his heavy footwear. "I'm doing the same thing. I'm just failing at it." Ian's right boot lands on the tile next to the left one.  
  
"Come on, that's not true."  
  
Michael's tone is sympathetic, and Ian sort of wishes he had managed to drown him. He liked it better when they were fighting. Of course it is his fault Michael's being all empathetic, considering his last self-deprecating statement.  
  
"I wouldn't be as good a butterflyer if you weren't so fucking good at it," Michael continues. "I have to work really hard to beat you."  
  
Ian fights the urge to roll his eyes. "Well, that's comforting..."  
  
"Look, as lame as it is, all that crap about us being good for each other is true. Friendly rivalry is good for competition."  
  
"Is it friendly?" Ian asks. "Because most of the time I feel like we're just faking that part of it."  
  
Michael looks a little displeased by Ian's admission. "I'm not faking it."  
  
"Right, because you didn't just call me a loser ten minutes ago," Ian retorts.  
  
"We were fighting," Michael says by way of explanation. "People say shit they don't mean when they're angry."  
  
"I think people say things they've always wanted to say when they're angry," Ian counters.  
  
Michael blinks, and Ian can tell the wheels in his head are turning. "So you really think me giving up my relay spot in Athens was selfish."  
  
Ian has to bite his tongue so he can temper his reply. "Honestly? Yeah. I do."  
  
Michael has no poker face to speak of, which makes Ian wonder who he's playing cards with that he can win so often. The expression on his face is sour, almost like a petulant child about to throw a tantrum. "I did it for  _you_ , asshole. Not for me. I felt bad for you."  
  
"Oh good, pity. That makes me feel way better."  
  
"It wasn't pity!" Michael's voice bounces off the walls, and he flinches a little at the sound of it. "Or fuck, maybe it kinda was. I don't know. What I do know is how guilty you felt about the free relay, and that you weren't one hundred percent in the fly either and, if it was me, I'd want another chance."  
  
Ian takes a breath, because he doesn't really like thinking about Athens. At all. The feelings associated with those Games are more than a little unpleasant. He still gets embarrassed whenever anyone mentions that medley relay, and how he'd reacted to Michael giving up his spot for him. "Even if you had to accept charity to do it?" Ian asks, because if they have anything in common, it's pride.  
  
Michael shakes his head, but apparently not in answer to Ian's question. "You shouldn't think about it that way," he says. "We were teammates. We  _are_  teammates. We have to pick each other up. I was just the one in the position to do it for you back then. I'd like to think you'd do the same for me, if the situation was reversed."  
  
"I don't know if I would," Ian replies honestly.  
  
Michael expression is a little crestfallen. "I suppose that's fair."  
  
"I'm tired of losing," Ian says, and it's like he's just too exhausted to keep up a front anymore. "I'm tired of training my ass off just to lose to you every time we race. And I'm really tired of people saying that, if it wasn't for you, it would be  _me_  everyone was paying attention to. It's all so fucking backhanded. Like I'd be great,  _except_  I'm not, in comparison to you. I'm just so fucking sick of it, and maybe it would be easier if I could hate you."  
  
"I don't hate  _you_ ," Michael states.  
  
"I know," Ian replies, sighing. "Sometimes I wish you did."  
  
"Sorry."  
  
Ian shrugs, and silence descends on them, the two of them just hanging there in the water at the edge of the pool. Ian feels heavy, and he's not sure if it's because he's still wearing his jeans, or if it's something more mental. "We should probably get out," he says, relying on pragmatism so he doesn't have to think too hard about what he's feeling.  
  
"Hold on," Michael replies, shifting a little closer to Ian against the pool wall.  
  
"What?" Ian asks carefully, fighting the urge to lean away from Michael's advance.  
  
Michael licks his lips, and Ian can only imagine what he's about to say. "I like you," he blurts, and it's really abrupt, like a teenager admitting a crush. Ian blinks a little in confusion, and Michael adds, "Like, I actually  _like_  you."  
  
Ian opens his mouth, but he has absolutely no idea what the hell to say in response to that.  
  
"Anyway." Michael looks like he's about to have a nervous breakdown, and he moves suddenly, turning so he can pull himself clumsily out of the pool. Ian watches him as he clambers to the deck, his t-shirt clinging and his sodden shorts dangerously close to falling off his body. He's barefoot, meaning his sandals are probably at the bottom of the pool somewhere, and he doesn't look back as he heads toward the locker room.  
  
Ian doesn't move for at least a minute, just trying to process what's happened between the two of them in the last half an hour. It's way too hard on his brain, and thinking about Michael  _liking him_  makes his chest ache in a really strange way. He feels a little cold, and he tries to convince himself it's being so still in the pool for so long. Even he has a hard time believing it.  
  
Eventually, he gets himself out of the water, collecting his boots from the deck and heading to the locker room himself, half hoping that maybe Michael just changed and left for the day.  
  
But Michael's still there, tying the string on his Speedos when Ian rounds the corner into the room. Michael glances up, and the quickly back down when he verifies that it's Ian in the room with him. Ian tries to pretend everything is like normal between them, going about peeling off his wet clothes, letting them fall to the cement floor with wet slaps that resound though the empty space. His heart is pounding, but he doesn't really know why. The anxiety doesn't make any sense at all.  
  
And then, once he's down to just his boxers, he hesitates. It's not like Michael's never seen him naked before, and his underwear are soaked and clinging to him in ways that leave less to the imagination that even his regular swim trunks do. Besides that, there's probably no way Michael is looking at him now. So he skins them off, focusing hard on his locker as he gets changed into his swimsuit as fast as possible. It turns out to be a wasted effort, though, because when he allows himself to look around in peripheral, Michael is gone.  
  
He doesn't really know what he expects when he gets back to the pool, considering they're the only two people here, and will be for at least a while longer. Michael's in the farthest lane from the locker room door, goggles on and swimming slow but strong laps with a kick-board. Ian forces himself not to stare, but his mind is still busy trying to process what the hell Michael really meant by saying he  _liked_  Ian. Did that mean something like a crush, or was it more intense than that? Was he actually attracted to Ian, or just had some kind of more cautious feelings? It was irritating to think about, because Ian didn't particularly want Michael to like him  _at all_ , and definitely not as more than a friend.  
  
The water is shocking when Ian jumps in, and he's grateful for the way it jolts his brain into clarity. He starts on some basic freestyle laps, just warming his muscles up, and concentrates on counting his strokes, trying to progressively get less and less as he reaches harder, and swims faster. He's panting a little when he finally finishes a thousand meters and stops fore a break, clinging to a lap line and popping his goggles up to his forehead.  
  
"Wanna race?" Michael asks, and Ian jumps, not noticing that Michael has moved over to the lane on his left. Turning his head, he meets Michael's eyes, staring for a moment at how water clumps his long eyelashes together.  
  
"Don't you think we should wait for the coaches?" Ian replies, feeling the weird fluttering of anxiety returning in the pit of his stomach. "They're going to make us race anyway."  
  
Michael shrugs. "We don't have anything better to do in the meantime, do we? I mean, we're gonna have a ton of drills this afternoon. Might as well fuck around while we can."  
  
Ian flinches a little at Michael's choice of words. "I suppose you want to do the hundred fly again."  
  
"Let's do an IM," Michael suggests.  
  
Ian blinks. He hasn't raced in an IM against Michael in a long time. Probably because he's been concentrating on freestyle and butterfly lately, and, as Aaron and Brendan like to tease him about respectively, his backstroke and breaststroke have gotten a little ridiculous these days. "An IM?"  
  
"Yeah," Michael says. "Just for fun."  
  
Ian can't beat Michael in an IM. Ian can't even beat Michael in fucking butterfly. He's not really sure how racing Michael now in an event he doesn't compete in all that often is going to make him feel better. But, for some reason, he finds himself agreeing. "Okay."  
  
Michael smiles, though it's not with his normal intensity. Still, it's better than all the tension that has been going on between them. He goes about putting his goggles back on, and Ian follows suit, adjusting the strap and pressing the cups over his eyes to make sure the suction is set. "Let's do a 400," Michael adds as he hauls himself out of the pool, shaking some of the water off his legs before coming around to stand on his block. Ian does the same, testing his goggles again with a press of his fingertips, one foot on the block for a few seconds before he climbs up. Michael's bent at the waist, flapping his arms as usual, and Ian folds forward, fingers brushing the edge.  
  
"On your mark," Michael says, and Ian really can't believe he's doing this. He reaches down and grabs the end of the block, fingers tense and leg muscles coiled, and waits for Michael's command to start the race. "Go."  
  
Ian launches himself into the water like he has a million times before, fingers slicing into cool blue, head and body following smoothly, shifting his arms and bowing his back as he starts into his butterfly. Moving through this stroke is as natural as breathing, and he's confident he's the best, because no matter how many times Michael's beat him, he still owns the 100m fly. He's got Michael beat going into the turn, and they come out of it pretty much at the same pace they always do, right on top of each other. He tries to ride this out, because the only other place he's going to make up any ground is in the freestyle lap, and he's going to have to swim his best to keep up with Michael on the next two strokes.  
  
At the next wall he touches and pushes out to surface on his back, the sensation not even remotely unfamiliar. He obviously does practice this, but it's not as ingrained as his fly, which he can do in his sleep. He thinks about each stroke, the rotation of his body, the clearance of his arms, turning his hands as they cut through the water above his head. The drive is so different, and the coordination of his kicks, but he doesn't misjudge his strokes and the flip-turn is right on target. He turns Michael's direction, so he can see that disgustingly perfect dolphin kick when he's attempting his own, a little jealous of Michael's long body and overly flexible joints. Through the other length on his back, another decently timed flip-turn, and he's probably ten meters behind Michael when they surface for the breaststroke lap.  
  
They both suck at this one. By the time they make it through the first fifty, Ian's managed to gain some ground on Michael, and the turn is pretty close. Ian figures he needs to pull even with Michael here before the end of this lap, because they're going to really battle it out in the last 100 meters.  
  
He's starting to get tired, because he is racing at top speed. They both are, even if it is fucking around. Any race between the two of them is cutthroat. People like to say that their rivalry is good for each other, that if there was no Ian Crocker, Michael Phelps wouldn't be nearly as amazing. It just pisses Ian off, like his only reason for being is to push Michael to the brink, to be a stepping stone so Michael can be great. It spurs Ian on, because he doesn't want to be a rung in Michael's ladder. He wants to be the spoiler. He wants to be the one that fucks up the dream.  
  
Michael out touches him into the next turn, but not by much, and he can feel adrenaline building as he goes into his freestyle. His arms are burning, and so are his lungs, but he's powering through the first fifty like he's being chased down by sharks. His flip-turn into the final length is probably the best one he's done in weeks, staying down beneath the water as long as he's allowed, breaking the surface and pulling hard, every part of his body protesting. He can see Michael at his side, keeping up, starting to overtake him, and he puts his head down and grits his teeth and pushes, hips and shoulders erupting in pinpoints of pain as he tests their limits. He's counting down, the last three strokes, and he needed a breath two strokes ago, but he won't lift his head, reaching and feeling his vision blacking out as his fingertips crash into the wall.  
  
He lifts his head with a echoing gasp and looks immediately up to the scoreboard, which as just as dead and blank as it's been all day. He feels heat bleeding to his face as he turns to Michael, reality filling in around him as he tugs his goggles off his face. He's breathing hard, and so is Michael, and here, in a real race, they would embrace each other, no matter what the results.  
  
Michael reaches out with one hand as his other tugs off his own goggles, his fingertips grazing Ian's neck, Michael's long arm tugging Ian over and bringing them together. But he doesn't hook his chin over Ian's shoulder like normal. He tips his head, and in the euphoria of the moment, Ian lets Michael kiss him.  
  
Ian often relates finishing a race with having an orgasm in his head, the similar swirling of oxygen depravation, relief, endorphins, adrenaline. Having Michael's mouth on his feels like a natural extension of that, so much so that the sweep of Michael's tongue along the seam of Ian's lips parts them, and Michael dives in without remorse. Ian's heart is pounding in his chest so hard he can't hear anything, can't even function except to kiss Michael back. It's what his body wants, and he doesn't have the energy or the desire to fight it. He won't deny it feels good, coming down from the thrill of completion and being stimulated this way. Michael's kiss is a little awkward, but it's forceful and deep and determined, and Ian can't help the way it makes his head spin.  
  
In reality, it might last ten seconds, because they're both desperate for air, and they're gasping for it noisily as soon as they part, still touching, hanging on, looking at each other almost too closely.  
  
"You beat me," Michael pants, breathless, his thumb rough against the back of Ian's neck.  
  
"How do you know?" Ian asks, the rise and fall of his own chest rapid.  
  
"I watched you." Michael blinks, and Ian realizes for the first time how husky Michael's voice has gotten, sees the bedroom droop to his eyelids. He's always been that way, always looked like that after a race. Debauched. "I watched you touch before me."  
  
Ian swallows hard, because he can't confirm or deny what Michael is telling him. His pride wants it to be true, but his ego won't let him believe it. "There's no way. We were way too close."  
  
Michael shakes his head. "I saw you. I always watch you." He licks over his lips, and his fingertips curl into Ian's upper spine. "You won."  
  
"Michael..." Ian wants to say something, because he really should. He had Michael's tongue in his mouth a few seconds ago and, while he never wanted it there, he hadn't minded. That must mean  _something_.  
  
"I know," Michael says, and his thumb brushes over the nape of Ian's neck one more time before he pulls his arm back, his free hand gripping the lane line and pushing himself away. "I'm sorry. For what it's worth."  
  
His pulse is still racing, and he knows that mostly from the exertion, but it makes this entire scene a lot more intense than it probably should be. "What for?"  
  
"This," Michael says. "Everything."  
  
Ian takes a breath, and he's about to tell Michael he doesn't need to apologize, or maybe ask Michael to be more specific, but then there are other voices, and Eric and Garrett are coming into the room, back from lunch.  
  
"What are you guys doing here?" Garrett asks when he spots Ian and Michael in the pool. "Did Eddie make you skip lunch or something?"  
  
"No," Michael responds. "We're just serious Olympic athletes. Not a bunch of slackers like the rest of you."  
  
Eric gets a worried look on his face, and turns to Garrett. "I told you we should have come back early."  
  
"He's just joking," Garrett assures him, glaring down at Michael. "Right Mike?"  
  
Michael gives Garrett a look. "Sure," he says, and Ian's a little jealous how nonchalant Michael is able to act, considering.  
  
Eric slugs Garrett in the upper arm. "I  _told_  you. They say they want you back at three, but what they really want is for you to show how dedicated you are by coming back early."  
  
"Calm down, dude," Garrett says, grabbing Eric's shoulder and shoving him toward the locker room. "The coaches aren't even  _here_."  
  
Eric lets himself be lead away, but doesn't stop sniping at Garrett all the way there, his voice echoing lowly until the door closes behind them.  
  
In the lane next to Ian, Michael exhales a sigh of what sounds like relief. The silence now is deafening, and it unnerves Ian enough for him to blurt, "We should talk about this later."  
  
"Yeah," Michael agrees quickly. "Yeah, sure." He turns out away from Ian then, shutting down, reseating his googles over his eyes and pushing off into a freestyle lap that leaves Ian clinging to the lane line alone.  
  
//  
  
It's so late when Michael knocks on Ian's temporary dorm room door, he's completely forgotten that he essentially told Michael to come and see him later. He wasn't asleep, but he's tired, and he can tell Michael is too.  
  
"Can I come in?" Michael asks, and when Ian hesitates he adds, "I know it's late. I just... I talked myself in and out of coming here about a million times. If you don't want to-"  
  
"Yeah," Ian cuts him off, taking a step back and letting Michael in, closing the door behind him. Michael fidgets and Ian is too worn out to be a good host, just going back to his bed and flopping down, back against the headboard. Michael shifts foot to foot at the side of the bed before he finally decides to sit down at the end of the mattress, crossing his legs and facing Ian.  
  
"I don't know what the hell was wrong with me today," Michael begins to explain, not really looking at Ian. "I think I'm anxious or something. Anyway, I think you should just forget what I said and we can just go back to being the way we were before."  
  
Ian takes a breath, slow and deep, as if his own breathing can calm Michael down a little. "I'm not really sure we can do that," he replies evenly. "Not exactly."  
  
Michael looks up, gaze focusing. "Because I kissed you."  
  
"Because you kissed me," Ian repeats back. "But I'm not freaked out. I want you to know that. I might have been if you did this back before Athens, but..." Ian shrugs. "My perspective has been reset since then, I guess."  
  
Michael nods, understanding a least a little. "Thank you."  
  
"Sure."  
  
They seem to be trying to break a record as far as uncomfortable silences, and even Ian feels like he's about to lose it when Michael pushes forward onto his hands and knees, crawling up and pressing his mouth against Ian's roughly without any warning. Ian's jump brings them together hard, and he can taste blood as his lips are smashed between their teeth. But even at that, Michael doesn't back off, and somehow Michael's tongue is in Ian's mouth again, and Ian is inexplicably kissing back.  
  
The angle is awkward, and Ian's neck is starting to hurt, which is the reason he lets Michael work him down the bed, allows Michael to stretch out on top of him, legs tangled and Michael's mouth wet and hot and heavy against his. He doesn't hold Michael, or even touch him, but he doesn't stop Michael's hand from brushing his cheek, doesn't fight to get away. Doesn't stop pushing up into Michael's kiss.  
  
At least not until he feels the knot of Michael's cock against his thigh, obviously hard. He tries to duck his head back, but Michael chases him, and he has to put a palm to Michael's shoulder and push to get him away.  
  
"Stop," he hisses, breathless. "I can't do this."  
  
Michael's exhale is a breathy sigh, and his voice is dangerously low, desperate. "Why?"  
  
"Why?" Ian's tone rises. "Because I'm not like  _that_." He pushes his shoulders back, trying to put space between himself and Michael, shoving a little where his hand is still on Michael's shoulder.  
  
"I'm not either," Michael says, an edge to his words. "But you and me... There's something."  
  
"No," Ian replies firmly, his other hand joining the effort to get Michael off him. "There's nothing."  
  
"There  _is_ ," Michael persists. "We're tied together, born to fuck each other, one way or another-"  
  
"Stop it," Ian flinches away from Michael's words. "Don't say things like that."  
  
"It's the truth," Michael says, tone harsh. "You know it is. If it wasn't for me, you'd be the one winning out there. You can't tell me you wouldn't want to fuck me over if you had the chance. That you don't want to be the one ruining things for me in Beijing."  
  
Ian's chest pushes up as he rolls his shoulders back, defiant. "I want to win."  
  
"Which means I have to lose." Michael's breath presses them even closer together. "You want me to lose."  
  
"And you want me to lose," Ian snipes. "It makes perfect fucking sense."  
  
"I don't," Michael disagrees. "It's just how it works."  
  
"So, what's this? Consolation? 'It's okay, Ian. It doesn't matter if I beat you in the pool if I let you fuck me'?"  
  
"No." Michael's eyes flash with anger, and with hurt. "I told you before, I  _like_  you. I'm not doing this to make you feel better. I want this. I thought maybe you did, too."  
  
"God, no," Ian spits, and he wishes desperately he could recoil.  
  
"You kissed me back," Michael states, letting the darker of the two emotions show through. "Twice." Ian doesn't have any defense for that. Because he has let Michael kiss him - has  _kissed Michael_  - twice. He goes long enough without speaking that Michael continues, "at least some part of you wanted me back."  
  
Ian closes his eyes tight, because he doesn't really want to think about what any of this means. At all. And especially not like this, trapped beneath Michael's weight, close enough to feel Michael's words in breaths across his skin.  
  
"Ian."  
  
"Can you go back to your room please?" He knows his voice is shaking, but he can't help it. He needs Michael to leave. Except he hesitates, and Ian can still feel the little puffs of his breath against his cheeks. " _Please,_ " he adds, the rasp of his voice desperate.  
  
Michael moves, rolling himself carefully off and then sliding off the bed. Ian counts to ten before he opens his eyes, and he sees Michael standing there, waiting. "Michael..."  
  
"I'm going," Michael says, putting his hands up. "But I... I want to make sure this isn't going to be weird. Tomorrow, I mean. In the pool."  
  
Ian takes a breath, swallowing down the panic that's been rising in the back of his throat. "No." He thinks about expounding on the statement, but he's afraid of how his voice will sound, so he presses his lips together into a flat line, hoping one word will good enough.  
  
"Okay." Michael lingers another long moment, like he wants to say something else, but instead just turns to the door, letting himself out with only the barest of backward glances.  
  
//  
  
Ian tries hard to forget about all of it. True to his word, he makes sure things aren't weird when they're swimming, though they don't talk much when they don't have to. In Beijing, Ian hardly even sees Michael, because Michael's at The Cube a lot, or the cafeteria, and Ian is more than happy to stay shut up in his room with his guitar. Once the games start, they don't even swim together anymore, and Ian can't say he's not relieved to be as far away from the Michael Phelps Show as possible.  
  
Until the 100m fly. This is Ian's last shot, if he wants to be really honest, to win an individual Olympic gold. He really doesn't think he has it in him to swim in 2012, especially if he goes down to Michael  _again_. He knows pretty much the entire world is against him here, because they all want Michael to get his seventh, Spitz-tying gold. At least Ian has his mom and dad and Amy, and that's better than nothing, right?  
  
It's over a lot faster than it probably should be. Michael out touches Milorad Cavic by one one-hundredth of a second to win the race, and everyone is so amazed and awestricken that they don't even notice Ian, just over half a second back, one tenth of a second behind a medal. Of any color.  
  
He congratulates Michael, because they're teammates and they're on camera and Ian  _is_  happy for Michael, on some level. He's right on Michael's other side, and he has to wait long seconds for Michael to celebrate before he comes across to take Ian's hand. They embrace, and Ian has to fight off the memory of the last time they touched like this. He hates that it makes him shiver, and that Michael doesn't says  _anything_  when Ian tells him good swim, just exhales near Ian's ear and pushes away, back into the limelight.  
  
No one watches Ian climb out of the pool. He's invisible, and he's glad for it, because he feels like he might scream or cry or punch something really hard. Michael was right, after all, at least partially. Ian was completely fucked. But not by Michael this time. This time, he fucked himself.


End file.
